


Some Place Warm

by JiM



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:04:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11330880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiM/pseuds/JiM
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Some Place Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Some Place Warm by JiM

Some Place Warm  
by JiM 

* * *

Rain. There was something so fitting to the sullen, spitting rain that Skinner almost looked on it with approval. There was no sane reason for him to be here so, of course, it was raining and near-freezing in Duluth, MN. He yanked the collar of his trench coat up and wished he thought ahead enough to actually check the weather before he'd left. But there hadn't been time, he reminded himself as they brought his rental car around. He'd had to rush to make it to the airport for the one flight out this afternoon, so there had been no time to pack.

He carefully did not think about why there had been no time to waste.

Checking his maps and hastily scrawled notes in the gloomy light, Skinner wondered if the name of his destination was an omen or if it had merely amused Mulder. Castle Danger, a township somewhere in the fog banks that licked onto the north shore of Lake Superior.

Skinner found the interstate and started driving north. Scully hadn't been kidding, it was rural up here. The highway was two lanes wide and there were big patches of empty in between the small villages he passed. Twice, he saw deer standing beside the road, watching him pass with interest but no fear. It got colder as night fell and he turned the heat up another notch. Back in D.C., people were admiring the cherry blossoms and the joggers in their brightly colored spandex. Even he was stripping his jacket and tie off on the drive home now, letting the warm promise of summer whisper to him through the open windows. Here, it seemed that spring barely had a foothold on the rocky shores.

Why the hell had Mulder come here to recover?

Skinner stopped in the first real town he'd seen in an hour and a half to refill the gas tank and get himself some coffee. It had been a hell of a couple of weeks and he was running up a sleep debt that soon not even a gallon of coffee would be able to cure. Another glance at the map told him he was within 15 miles of his destination. And then what, a treacherously sensible part of his mind wondered. He had no answer for it.

Night had fallen with a murky suddenness that unnerved him. There was no light out here, beside that of his own headlights and those of travelers passing him, overtaking him and disappearing around some bend in the road he couldn't seem to anticipate until it was right before him, demanding negotiation. There was nothing to warn him when the sign for Castle Danger loomed up suddenly then sprang away behind him.

He swore, then pulled a U-turn in the middle of the dark highway and carefully negotiated the turn onto the dirt road. At least, he supposed it was a dirt road when it wasn't monsoon season. Now, it was just a single lane morass of reddish clay that seemed to slither beneath his wheels. When his rental car refused to climb one steep incline, the wet clay slicker than ice beneath him, Skinner finally admitted defeat. He let the car slide backward and guided it carefully over to the shoulder, where he left it in disgust. The rain began to slink down his neck before he was ten paces up the road.

He was going to kill Mulder.

Twenty minutes of stumbling up the dark road led him around one gentle curve and brought him the welcome sight of lights and a small line of cabins. There was a house in the middle of the line, perched like a duck in the rain, the cabins a cluster of ducklings nestled about her. His knock on the door brought him a friendly-faced older woman who clucked over his dripping, muddy state while not allowing him to step off the Welcome mat.

"Mr. Williams?" she said doubtfully, when he asked for Mulder using the alias Scully had given him. "He's in cabin 12. He didn't mention company."

"He's not expecting me," Skinner said honestly, then held up a pill bottle Scully had given him for Mulder. "His doctor sent these along for him. She said it was imperative that he get them as soon as possible, so here I am." He smiled his most ingratiating smile, his "small town mother" expression, crafted especially for allaying the fierce doubts of aroused maternal instinct during field interviews. The pills were actually multivitamins intended for expectant mothers, but Scully figured that Mulder could use some heavy vitamin therapy after all he'd been through. Skinner figured he could use a spanking, then cut that line of thought right off.

His smile worked, as it always had, despite his shivering. He was given directions to the last cabin up the road and admonished to get out of those wet shoes as soon as possible. Then he was back out in the rain and slogging up the muddy road, listening to the booming of waves against a rocky shore somewhere off to his right. He passed five dark, empty little houses until he came to the last one, perched out on the edge of a cliff. There was one light visible through the window facing the road and he thought he could smell wood smoke through the rain. 

The thought of a fire and warmth carried him up the single step and across the porch to knock on the door. He took the "Yeah?" he heard as an invitation, so he tried the knob and walked in through the unlocked door. He found himself in a small foyer, lined with coat hooks and a boot rack. He took three steps into the golden lit room and stopped.

"Hey, Ed, just in time. I could use some firewood. It's a cold one..." Mulder's voice trailed off when he saw the man who stood there, dripping. Skinner had never known what he intended to say at this moment, so he said nothing. He just looked.

Mulder was sitting in an easy chair pulled close to a stone-edged fireplace. There was a book lying face-down on a small table beside him. Mulder was wearing gray sweats that looked too large on him; he hadn't shaved this morning. His right hand was dangling out of sight and his left hand was resting in his lap. There was an ash cane lying on the floor beside him. The room was warm, a ceiling fan circled lazily above his head. The waves purred and whispered outside. The facts ticked over in Skinner's head and he wondered which one was going to stick, to make sense, to force the rest of the puzzle pieces into place.

"You shouldn't leave the door unlocked like that, Mulder."

Mulder slowly brought his right hand into view and showed Skinner a serviceable-looking .357. Skinner nodded approval.

"Of course, it's not like there's anyone still left to come after me," Mulder said, clicking the safety back on and laying the pistol on top of his book.

"You're an FBI agent, Mulder. There's always someone with unfinished business. You know that."

"*Was* an FBI agent, " Mulder corrected sharply, and looked into the fire. Skinner said nothing, so Mulder looked at him again.

"You look wet."

"It's raining."

For some reason, Mulder smiled that dry smile that Skinner remembered from a hundred meetings, the one that said he thought you were an idiot but wasn't going to tell you so to your face.

"Take off your coat and stay awhile. And your shoes. You're getting mud everywhere."

Which wasn't true; Skinner hadn't moved. But he looked down and saw that his shoes and slacks were covered with reddish splatters to the knee. Apparently, he'd ruined another suit in his pursuit of Mulder. He shook his head and went back to the little foyer where he hung up his overcoat and suit jacket. Then he kicked off his mud-encrusted shoes and mentally consigned them to the garbage heap along with the slacks. His socks were a dead loss, too, so he stripped those off. 

There was a kitchenette directly to the left of the foyer; he detoured through it and grabbed a dishtowel to wipe the rain from his face and glasses. Mulder was looking at him over the kitchen island that separated the kitchen area from the living room. Skinner came back to stand beside the fireplace, then edged closer to the heat, letting it seep into his chilled bones. He leaned an arm on the pine beam that served for a mantel and finally looked at Mulder.

"So what brings an assistant director to my door?" Mulder's voice was mocking and grated on Skinner's previously numb nerves. It was weaker, in some undefinable way, than it should have been.

Skinner reached into his pocket and brought out the pill bottle, which he tossed across the room into Mulder's lap. "Scully wanted me to remind you to take your vitamins."

Mulder read the label of the bottle and snorted. "She's lost it. She sent me Prenatal Care vitamins. I swear, she's finally snapped."

"She's not the one holed up in a cabin in rural northern Minnesota, Mulder."

"A liking for the North Shore isn't actually a sign of mental illness, Skinner."

They glared at one another, the anger suddenly flashing between them.

"Why are you here?"

"Why are *you* here?" Skinner snapped back.

"Because I wanted to transact some private business with the fewest obstacles," Mulder was both sneering and serious, trying to explain something deeply personal using nothing more than clumsy human words.

"I read Thoreau, too, Mulder. Why are you here?"

Mulder gave up, his slender strength sapped by his anger. "Because I needed a place to heal and it's peaceful here."

"You couldn't choose somewhere warm?" Skinner asked. The words thrummed oddly in the high-ceilinged room. He remembered the last time he'd said those words.

~ ~ ~ ~

They had been doing the final paper work, closing out a couple of outstanding X files. Mulder and Scully had solved a series of abduction cases with no deaths and they were all giddy with a sense of accomplishment, the recognition that this brief flash of knowing that they had made the world safer was why they had each gone into law enforcement in the first place. Mulder hadn't even complained that the solution wasn't especially unusual in the end. They had all had quite enough extraterrestrial explanations to last them with the exposure of the Consortium and the alien invasion, now a year in the past. Sometimes good old-fashioned human wickedness was reassuring in its very normalcy.

Scully had been called downstairs for a forensics consult, so Mulder and Skinner had finished the meeting on their own, buoyed by good humor and a sense of teamwork in a righteous cause. They sat side by side, the papers, diagrams, photos and charts of the case spread across the long conference table in Skinner's office. Skinner had signed off on the last report and dumped it in his 'Out' tray before asking, "So - what's next?"

"A vacation, I think."

Skinner had been surprised. "Where would you go?"

"Nova Scotia, I think."

Skinner looked out at the rainy April weather, then back at Mulder. "Canada? Why not choose someplace warm?"

"Well, where would *you* go for a vacation?"

Surprised by the earnest light in Mulder's eyes, Skinner had answered honestly. "The Bahamas. Jamaica, maybe, or the Virgin Islands. Someplace warm, where I can lie on a beach or sail and not worry about anything for a while."

"Well, what's stopping you?"

Still under the spell of that serious gaze, Skinner had remained honest. "No one to go with."

Something shifted and reshaped in Mulder's eyes, some kaleidoscoping of emotion that Skinner could not follow. Then Mulder had leaned across the arm of his chair and kissed him. His lips had been warm and gentle and moved lightly across his own. The hand on his jaw was also warm and gentle and tipped his head as Mulder carefully deepened the kiss. His tongue slipped between Skinner's lips and teased around his mouth, his taste sweet and dark and so much like Mulder himself that Skinner knew he would always remember this taste, it would always be in his mouth when he looked at the man... It all would have been perfect, that sudden loving gesture, if only Skinner could have forgotten one thing.

Mulder was a man. There was a man kissing him.

His hand shot out and he straight-armed Mulder across the chest, shoving him backward so violently that his chair rocked and teetered. "What the HELL do you think you're doing?" His outrage had roared and charged around the room, swirling around them both.

Mulder hadn't answered him, had just wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and stared at the polished table top.

Skinner, unable to bear the silence, had launched into another patented speech he had prepared for just such occasions as this, although he'd never had to use it under circumstances exactly like these. "Look, Mulder, I'm flattered but this can't happen." Here, the canned words slipped away from him. "I'm not...I mean..."

"I get it, sir. I'm sorry." Mulder had shot to his feet and been out the door before Skinner could regain control of himself. 

He had spent half an hour gathering the rest of Mulder's paperwork together and distinctly not thinking about anything having to do with Mulder when the call had come. He and all of his available agents were mustered to respond to a terrorist situation at the train station.

Skinner had been able to give Mulder and Scully their assignment without anything different registering in his tone or manner. Professionalism was his hallmark and they were his best. They went out and did their job and Mulder had taken three bullets while rescuing ten hostages.

Skinner hadn't found Mulder's resignation letter in his "In" box until two days later. It had been typed minutes before the call out, and cited "personal reasons" for his resignation. Having just returned from the hospital, where he'd seen an unconscious Mulder being wheeled back from emergency surgery to remove an overlooked piece of shrapnel, Skinner had stared at the three sentence letter until it shook in his hand. Then he had crumpled it and hurled it across the room. An hour later, he had retrieved it and placed it in Mulder's file.

~ ~ ~ ~ 

"Warm is your dream, Skinner, not mine. All I need is a quiet place where no one bothers me."

"Why not go home?" Skinner ignored the jab and tried to focus on the mystery of why Mulder was here.

"Home isn't really an option any more, Skinner. My mother and I aren't on the best terms and I needed somewhere quiet, without emotional dramas or baggage for a few weeks." Mulder looked away, out into the blackness of the lake beyond the windows.

Stabbed by the knowledge that he had just dragged his own emotional baggage up here, Skinner snarled, "So you came up here to lick your wounds and feel sorry for yourself?"

Mulder's head snapped around and his face was flushed. "I was shot three times in the line of duty, *Sir*. I think that entitles me to a few weeks of licking my wounds."

"You've been shot before, Mulder, and never needed to drag your sorry ass into the woods to recuperate. Scully used to have to staple you to your bed to keep you down long enough to heal." 

"Yeah, well, my 'sorry ass' is over forty now and I don't bounce back as fast as I used to."

"That's not it."

Mulder shrugged and looked back out into the darkness. Skinner studied him for a while and didn't like what he saw. Behind the unshaven beard, Mulder's cheeks were thin and pale. His eyes were sunken and he was holding himself too stiffly upright in his chair. One hand was gripping the armrest until the knuckles whitened.

"You look like you could use another painkiller. When did you take the last one?"

"Tuesday."

"What?!" It was Thursday now. "Where are they?"

"Bathroom." Mulder's flat tone startled him into motion. Skinner followed the other small hallway out of the living room and found two tiny bedrooms before opening an identical door into the bathroom. The tiled floor was cold to his barely-warmed feet as he noted the handicap accessible shower stall. Mulder's shaving kit was there beside the sink, still as tidily packed as if he had just arrived. Beside it stood a bottle of antibiotics and one of painkillers. The antibiotics were nearly gone and the painkillers were barely touched. "Idiot," Skinner growled between clenched teeth, shaking a codeine tablet into his hand. 

He went back into the kitchen for a glass and filled it with tap water. The cloudy beige water in the glass deepened his scowl and he went to the refrigerator to look for the bottled water he knew Mulder drank now. There was no water in the fridge. In fact, there was very little on the shelves; half a loaf of bread, some bologna, some cheese, an apple. He clenched his teeth together more tightly to trap something nameless and unforgivable trying to struggle out of his chest. Silently, he brought the glass and tablet back to Mulder and stood over him until he took the medication and swallowed half the water.

"Why haven't you been taking the painkillers?"

A shrug and another stare into the darkness.

"There's practically no food here."

Another shrug. "Ed and Pauline said they'd pick me up some groceries tomorrow."

"Did you get checked out down at the clinic?"

A sullen shake of the head. "I forgot. I'm fine."

Scully had been right on nearly every count. She'd said that he would probably find that Mulder wasn't eating, wouldn't have taken his meds and would have forgotten to get his stitches taken out. At least he'd been taking the antibiotics.

"Does that finish Dr. Scully's list, or was there anything else she told you to look for?" Mulder had dropped his head back on the headrest of the chair and was sitting there, eyes closed, half-smiling at the thought of his partner.

They knew each other so well, these partners. "That's everything. She made you an appointment at the clinic tomorrow morning; I'll take you down there."

Mulder's face hardened and he sat up, eyes open and snapping. "No."

"Yes," Skinner said, and took the glass back to the kitchen area. He put it in the sink, next to three sandwich plates, four soup bowls and two dirty coffee mugs. Then he rolled up his sleeves and ran the hot water and started to wash the dishes. He paid particular care to soaping each millimeter of surface area on every dish, then rinsing it thoroughly before placing each item in the dish drainer. He listened to the boom of waves hitting the cliffs below them and the crackling of the dying fire. It was a long time before he heard Mulder ask,

"Why didn't she come herself, if she didn't believe me over the phone?"

"She wanted to. I convinced her to let me come instead. I told her we have some unfinished business."

"There's nothing ..." Mulder stopped, as if uncertain of where his words meant to go. Skinner saw him blink twice, then shake his head. The codeine was taking effect. He dried his hands, then crossed the room to stand next to Mulder.

"Come on, let's get you to bed before you pass out here."

Mulder looked up at him owlishly. "That's why I quit taking the damned things. They make me so fuzzy I can't function." He allowed Skinner to take hold of his uninjured right arm and pull him smoothly to his feet. He wobbled a little as Skinner bent and handed him his cane. Then he walked very slowly toward the back of the cabin, Skinner looming behind him, hands ghosting behind Mulder's back, ready to grip and steady him in case of accident.

The left-hand bedroom was relentlessly cheerful, a small room dominated by the large four-poster bed covered with a red, green and white hand-made quilt. Small quilted mountain scenes hung on two walls and green curtains covered the windows on the third side. Skinner could hear the rain again, as he turned back the covers and watched Mulder sit carefully, then swing his injured left leg up onto the mattress. He lay back with a grimace of pain, then grinned a little as Skinner pulled the covers up.

"Are you gonna tell me a bedtime story, too?"

"Fuck you," Skinner said gently, and turned off the light as he left.

Skinner woke with daylight still a gray promise beyond the red curtains. He rode out the flash of panic he always had at awakening in a strange place. Slowly, he pieced it together -- Minnesota, Mulder, cabin, the spare bedroom. Ok, he knew where he was. He still didn't know why he was here, but he was gradually getting used to that. So he got up, put on his mud-splashed clothes from the night before and went out to make himself some coffee.

As the coffee maker mumbled and muttered to itself behind him, Skinner stood in the middle of the living room and looked out at the gray expanse of the lake before the cabin. There was an outcropping of cliff below him that dropped off abruptly to meet the pewter water. A single gull glided out and out across the water, to disappear into the wall of fog moving in across the lake. A few evergreens clung to the cliff beside the cabin, rain dripping from their branches. Skinner sat in Mulder's chair, drank his coffee and watched the fog roll in.

After a time, he put his empty cup into the sink, filled another and then went into Mulder's room. Mulder was still deeply asleep, flat on his back, breath moving silently in and out of his half-open mouth. Sometime in the night, he had stripped off his sweatshirt. His black tee shirt was stark against the bandages on his left upper arm. Skinner could see the mound of bandaging high on Mulder's left shoulder and chest, beneath the cotton, rising and falling rhythmically. 

"Mulder."

Though he had spoken quietly, Mulder's eyes snapped open and he jerked awake. Then he pressed a hand to his bandaged chest and groaned. "What?"

"Well, you're cheerful in the morning. Here," Skinner held out the cup of coffee he'd brought and waited until Mulder had painfully shifted himself up to lean against the headboard before handing it to him. Mulder took a long, deep swallow of coffee before even trying to focus his eyes on Skinner.

"Why are you still here?" he asked ungraciously.

"You have a doctor's appointment this morning. I'm taking you out to breakfast, then to your appointment. Then I'm going grocery shopping. You have fifteen minutes to get up, get dressed and argue with me about it."

Mulder's mouth tightened and he took another gulp of coffee. Twice he started to speak while Skinner stared impassively at him. Finally, he just shook his head. "Fine. Get out and let me get dressed." 

His docility made Skinner nervous, he'd been prepared for more spark and grumble than that. Maybe he should have checked Mulder's temperature, too.

He stepped out onto the porch to wait and was wrapped in the thick, spicy scent of poplars and rain. Birds called sleepily from all around and the lake was an insistent murmur behind him. There was a bright red Ford Explorer pulled up close beside the cabin and Skinner wanted to give thanks that he wouldn't have to go fetch his useless rental car.

The screen door slammed behind him and he turned to find Mulder standing there, watching him. Mulder was wearing jeans and docksiders, and his parka was a splash of purple and teal in the gray morning. He leaned heavily on his cane and his scowl rivaled the storm front. "Here," and he tossed something to Skinner. Skinner caught the car keys in one hand and concentrated on not letting his uneasy sense of triumph show as he unlocked the car. He held the passenger door open and waited until Mulder had slowly settled his wounded leg before closing it for him. He endured Mulder's silent glare as he got in and put the big SUV in gear. 

"Buckle your seat belt."

"Why the hell are you here?" 

Mulder's snarl ended on a gasp as they hit a pot hole.

Skinner paid closer attention to the road, driving more slowly down the bumpy, muddy track. "Because I needed a vacation."

"I was doing fine on my own."

Skinner didn't even dignify that with a response. When they passed his abandoned rental car, he pulled over and borrowed Mulder's cell phone. Tongues of fog licked across the road as he called the rental company and told them to come and fetch their useless piece of junk. A doe and fawn came to browse on the shoulder of the road and he watched them absently while the rental agency struggled fruitlessly against his determination. When they finally agreed with him, he thanked them politely and hung up, noting that the deer were now within a few yards of the Explorer.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a bully?" 

"Just smaller, weaker people," he smiled coolly and put the car back in gear, spooking the deer into the brush. "Where do you want to go for breakfast?"

They settled on a cafe close to the hospital in Two Harbors. It had obviously been designed to appeal to the hordes of summer tourists from presumably more urbane climes. It took them some time and careful studying of the menu to make their way through the gorgonzola and apple omelettes, tofu breakfast links and flavored decaf lattes before they found suitably plain and unhealthy food. Skinner watched Mulder take a bite of his pancakes, then dug into his own bacon and eggs with a dim sense of accomplishment. 

They did not waste time in conversation over breakfast, so Skinner had Mulder at the clinic at 9 am sharp for his appointment. Once again, Skinner got out, held the door for Mulder and got glared at for his trouble. Knowing instinctively just how far he could push Mulder, he didn't even attempt to come inside with him. 

"I'll go pick up some groceries while you get checked out. Meet you back here in an hour?"

Mulder nodded and limped toward the doors of the clinic, which Skinner had already noted were automatic. He waited until Mulder had disappeared inside before pulling back into traffic.

The grocery store was situated next to a huge pharmacy/dry goods chain store and it took Skinner only a moment to make his decision. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged with two bags of clothing and toiletries and a few other necessities that would hold him for a couple of weeks, if necessary. The grocery store took longer and he was forced to rely on his own taste and rather sketchy memories of things he'd seen Mulder eat. The check out lady was inclined to be chatty and when he pulled up outside the clinic, Mulder was already standing defiantly on the curb. He yanked open the passenger door and clambered in before Skinner had a chance to get out. 

Skinner politely ignored the gasp of pain he heard Mulder give, and overlooked the paleness of his face as he asked, "What did the doctor say?"

"She said that I should give up Irish step dancing before it killed me."

"Did she say anything about pissing off your boss?" Skinner waited until Mulder had buckled his seat belt before pulling away from the curb.

"Ex-boss."

"Mulder..."

"I'm fine. She took the stitches out, recommended some light exercise and better nutrition. She also gave me a lighter painkiller, something that won't drug me into oblivion every time I take it."

"Anything else?"

Mulder scowled so fiercely that Skinner braced himself for bad news. "She wondered why I hadn't gone somewhere nice and warm to recover, like Bermuda."

His face absolutely stone-calm, Skinner nodded. "She had to say that, Mulder. She's part of the vacation conspiracy."

Mulder's laugh was rusty but real, and it gave birth to a smile on Skinner's face, too. They drove the rest of the way back in a more friendly silence than they had shared in weeks.

Skinner made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and doctored a can of tomato soup until it tasted like something approaching real food. They sat at the plank table in the dining area, watched the lake play hide-and-seek through the mist, and ate in that same half-friendly silence. Mulder voluntarily took one of his new prescription painkillers and moved to the couch to watch Skinner build a fire, then wash the dishes.

After a time, he said, "Why are you here?" in a tone that left Skinner no room to maneuver.

"I don't really know. I've been wondering that myself."

Mulder had turned his face toward the flames. Skinner saw him swallow heavily. "Just tell me this isn't some weird guilt thing because I got shot."

"Why would I feel guilty about that? *I'm* not the one who shot you." Skinner thought he had the off-hand tone just right, until Mulder snorted and shot him an irritated glance. He tried again. "People have gotten hurt under my command before, Mulder. It's not pleasant and you always wonder a bit if you could have done it any differently to keep your people out of the line of fire...," his voice trailed off. "But you knew what you were doing, the rescue operation was a success and you're still alive. So, no, it wasn't tortured guilt that drove me up here."

Skinner dried his hands and came to sit beside the fire. Mulder looked speculatively at him and Skinner thought he could almost hear the thoughts clicking and humming behind his tired eyes. Mulder opened his mouth to ask something else completely embarrassing, so Skinner cut him off, saying,

"No, I didn't come up here because I thought you'd gone out and gotten yourself shot in a fit of despair just because I turned you down, OK?"

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence in my basic emotional stability." Mulder looked into the fire again and shifted a little on the couch. "Although that did *not* rank as one of the high points of my week," he added softly.

Skinner looked down at his hands, fingertips pink and wrinkled from the dishwater. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be, I was way out of line."

Skinner shook his head. "There was no excuse for me to hit you. Hell, you've punched me, pointed guns at me, pissed me off so much that I couldn't see straight and I've never taken a swing at you. Then you kiss me and I lose it?" He shook his head at his own stupidity and at the tremendous feeling of relief he had saying it out loud. 

*You kissed me.*

"Let's just declare a general amnesty, OK? I'm too sleepy to figure it out right now. I think the doctor at the clinic is in league with Scully; these painkillers are making me even more wasted than the others did."

"Get some sleep, then." Skinner went and dragged the quilt off of Mulder's bed, then dropped it over the drowsing man. Mulder gave a sigh and seemed to slip into a deep sleep that smoothed some of the pained lines from his face. Skinner noted that Mulder still hadn't shaved, then realized that using a safety razor with one hand was almost impossible, and while Mulder compensated well, he still didn't have much strength or dexterity in his left arm. 

Skinner sighed. Then he went and changed into a pair of new jeans and a sweatshirt, pulled on some newly-purchased socks and the workboots he'd yanked off the shelf at the drygoods store. He checked on Mulder one more time and put his .357 on the floor close beside the couch and Mulder's dangling hand. Then he drove back down into town to buy an electric razor.

Mulder was still asleep when he got back, the fog wrapped more snugly around the cabin than before. He noted that the firewood cradle on the porch had been restocked and he brought an armful of wood in with him. He stirred up the ashes and got the fire burning brightly again. Then he sat down in Mulder's chair, picked up one of the books piled on the side-table, opened it and fell asleep before he could turn the page.

He awakened to an annoying buzzing noise and that same flash of where-am-I panic. Minnesota-Mulder-cabin-chair, he told himself and took a calmer breath. Evening was slouching in across the lake but the newly-mended fire had filled the room with a warm glow, fending off the gloom outside. Mulder was gone but he had left his quilt wrapped around Skinner and the warmth and quiet let him feel how tired he was still. After a time, the buzzing stopped and Mulder wandered back in.

He was freshly shaved and showered and his hair curled damply, grown a little too long since the hospital. Skinner watched as he slowly crossed the room, leaning on his cane, and bent to put another log on the fire.

"Did you get your bandages wet?"

"I thought you were still sleeping." Mulder poked once more at the fire and levered himself upright.

"Are they wet?" Skinner asked again, bristling with the irritation of the newly-awakened.

Mulder sighed, then nodded. "I figured I'd get around to retaping things later."

"I'll do it." And Skinner was out of the chair and rummaging in the bathroom before Mulder could accept, reject or object. He came back with sterile dressings, ointment, surgical tape and a roll of gauze strapping. He dug his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and motioned to Mulder to sit in the chair he yanked out from under the kitchen table and placed close to the fire.

Abandoning himself to the inevitable, Mulder slowly pulled off the dark blue rugby shirt with damp stains on the left arm and chest area. Skinner's hand twitched but he did not reach over to help. When Mulder was stripped to the waist, Skinner started on the limp mass of soaked gauze on Mulder's left bicep. He teased up the edges of the both strips of surgical tape, then looked at Mulder. When Mulder nodded, Skinner ripped them away, baring the wound. Mulder hissed and shivered once, then subsided.

"Sorry." Then Skinner busied himself with anointing and rebandaging the bullet wound. It had been comparatively minor, the bullet passing through the muscle and missing the bone and most major veins. But it hurt like hell and regaining full use of his arm would take Mulder months. The fire hissed and shifted beside them, the light painting Mulder out in warm shades of orange and gold.

When Skinner turned his attention to the chest wound, fingers moving carefully over the area, he saw Mulder shiver again and watched gooseflesh rise beneath his hands. Once again, he gripped the edges of the surgical tape and waited until Mulder nodded before tearing it away. This wound was somewhat more serious than the first. High up on the left side of the chest, the bullet had lodged in between two ribs, causing bruising but not puncturing either the lung or heart. Mulder had taken off his Kevlar vest as a sign of good faith while dealing with the terrorists. Skinner's fingers shook slightly as he dabbed the ointment on. The wound still looked raw and livid, especially since it was two inches away from an older bullet wound. He was glad to cover it up again, tape it down and tell Mulder to put his shirt back on.

Mulder took a deep breath, then stood and looked at Skinner, kneeling beside him. He put a hand to the waistband of his loose jeans. Skinner nodded and busied himself, cutting new strips of surgical tape and laying out a large surgical dressing. He looked up just as Mulder faltered slightly and lost his balance, hand shooting out to steady himself on Skinner's shoulder. "Sorry," he gasped.

"No problem," Skinner said and reached up and tugged the opened jeans down and away from Mulder's hips. Deep blue long-legged cotton briefs covered half of the dressing on his thigh. Skinner waited until Mulder sat again, then drew the cotton up and away from the bandage. "These are a little tamer than I would have expected from you," he said, yanking a little on the material. 

"I don't know why everyone always assumes I have odd taste in underwear," Mulder said from between gritted teeth. "The strangest stuff I have comes from ...," Skinner yanked the dressing away, "...Scully," Mulder finished with a gasp.

"I don't want to know. Sorry," he added, wadding up the damp bandage and tossing it on the floor with the rest.

"S'ok," Mulder said from between his teeth as Skinner gingerly applied the cream. This wound had been the worst of them; the bullet had nicked the femoral artery and Mulder had been in serious condition when they got him into surgery. Surveying the scene later, Skinner had been appalled at the amount of blood drying on the floor of that train station waiting room. He had been unspeakably furious with Mulder.

"For my last birthday, she got me a pair of silk boxers with glow-in-the-dark aliens on them."

"Did I ask?" Skinner began taping down the large dressing. Then he wound loops of gauze tape around the thigh to hold it in place. Mulder was is good shape, he thought, he should heal well. Probably back to running in a couple of months.

"When am I supposed to wear something like that?" Mulder muttered as he stood and tried to pull his jeans back on.

"I have no idea," Skinner said dryly, bracing a hand at Mulder's waist and helping to draw the heavy fabric back up where Mulder could zip and fasten it while leaning heavily on Skinner's arm. 

Finally, they were done. Mulder was trembling. "I think I've pretty much burned up any energy I had today. A shower and an outing all in one day is pretty heady stuff for invalids like me." Something in Mulder's self-mocking tone annoyed Skinner and he said nothing as he helped Mulder to settle himself on the couch, then threw the pile of used dressings into the fire, where they hissed and muttered and turned black. He turned on one of the reading lights at the end of the couch, handed Mulder the entire stack of books from the end table and went off to shower and shave.

Morale and detachment restored by hot water and soap, Skinner found enough enthusiasm to wander into the kitchen, open a beer and consider dinner possibilities. Mulder was reading on the couch, wrapped in a kind of impenetrable self-sufficiency that precluded conversation. 

Spaghetti seemed simplest, not beyond his bachelor-born cooking abilities, so Skinner put on a pot of water and began slicing mushrooms and peppers to be added to the jar of sauce he'd bought. Learning to cook the dishes he liked had been a simple matter of necessity, unless he wanted to spend his days eating substandard food in cheap restaurants. He found he enjoyed it more when he was cooking for someone, a guest or one of his occasional dates. Looking over at Mulder, pale and shadowed in the glow of the lamp, too thin, too wounded, Skinner's mouth tightened. At least now Mulder would be eating properly.

The fog had begun to lift and he could see the tiny red lights of an ore carrier far out on the water. The vegetables hissed gently in the pan; the fire crackled and chuckled to itself; Mulder's page whispered as he turned it; the pasta water burbled cheerfully; there was a fog horn calling somewhere nearby. He put the spaghetti in to boil and poured the sauce in with the vegetables. Then he wondered how much vacation time he had accrued and whether it would be enough.

Fifteen minutes later, he put two steaming plates on the table and set another beer down for himself. Mulder limped his way to the table and sank into a chair. 

"Can I have one?" Mulder asked, nodding at the beer. "I'm not driving."

"OK, but no complaints about how wasted you are in half an hour," Skinner passed over his own untasted bottle and got up to get another. He'd already checked the drug interaction sheet and figured that it couldn't hurt.

"Deal," Mulder smiled and took a long happy swallow.

He was more animated over dinner than he had been since Skinner had arrived. He told Skinner the real story behind an otherwise unremarkable case report he'd filed six months before. Skinner found himself chuckling at the image of the impeccable Dana Scully remaining dignified and professional despite being liberally coated in lime jello and motor oil. It made him nearly sorry that he'd turned down her request for a clothing reimbursement; Mulder had known better than to even submit one.

Laughing felt good and strange, like he was stretching muscles he hadn't used in a while. He felt himself loosening in unsuspected places in his soul and would have been frightened if it hadn't been such a gradual process. Mulder looked sleepy and comfortable and cheerful as he pushed his mostly-emptied plate back. His own laughter was bright and easy now and Skinner smiled at him as he reached over to clear the table.

"Hey, Skinner?"

"What?"

"Why did you come here?"

The plates smacked back onto the table. Damn Mulder. He just wouldn't give up, ferreting out the truth, no matter whose it was or why it needed to be hidden for just a little longer. There was a silence that lasted two or maybe three breaths. "Just leave it, Mulder. I'm here, OK?"

"I need to know what this is. Friendship? Collegiality?"

"I don't *know*!" Skinner spun and went to stand in the shadowed corner of the darkened living room. He stared out at the night and saw the thin edge of the moon rising up, dark red, out of the lake. A path of crimson light unrolled from the horizon, seeming to come to an end right below him. 

It was a lie, of course. He knew why he was there. If he were honest, he'd know from the instant he'd booked the flight. Quite simply, he had to be where Mulder was. How was he supposed to tell anyone, let alone another man,

 /I'm less alone when you're here - you know the worst of me and you never turned away/? Or /because you kissed me and no one has kissed me like that in years and I need to feel that alive again/? 

How was he supposed to say any of that out loud and not feel his life, everything he'd ever known about himself as true, shattering around him?

Mulder's voice, when it came, was soft and regretful. "I'm sorry. I'm doing it again. Pushing you."

Skinner was so torn between terror and gratitude that he forgot how to swallow, didn't remember how to breathe. But this was Mulder, who had saved him so many times, who believed in him even when there was nothing to believe in. Mulder always pushed; it was what he did. In a way, it was what he was.

He owed Mulder something for the sheer kindness of his words; he deserved an answer, some part of the truth, even if Skinner didn't know all its dimensions yet. When he finally spoke, the voice that came out of the dark was hoarse and completely new, the voice of a mountain just before the avalanche that reshapes it. "Mulder. I'm 50 years old and I always thought I was straight. You tell me how I'm supposed to change enough to be *able* to answer you?"

"Do you want to? Do you really want to change that much?" Mulder's voice was unsteady, as if he had just realized how deep the tremors reached.

"I'm here." It was as much as he could give right now; he hoped it was enough. The disc of the moon had lifted itself free of the horizon and was now huge and flame colored and Skinner stared at it without blinking for a long time. Then he asked in a painfully normal voice, "How do I do it?"

"Slowly. We take it slow and easy." Mulder's voice was composed, self-assured now, calming in its everyday tone.

Skinner let out his breath with a gasp, as if he were surfacing from a great depth. "OK. First step?"

"First step -- we go look at the moon."

It was so unexpected that Skinner began to laugh shakily. But Mulder was serious and Skinner found himself following the limping man out onto the narrow deck that ran the width of the cabin, ending in a sturdy rail that faced the enormous orange face of the full moon, rising above the dark waters of Lake Superior. 

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching the moon. The cool breeze off the lake brought the scents of poplar and lilac swirling around them. Somewhere overhead, a night bird called. When Skinner looked up, he could barely recognize any constellations, there were so many more stars burning above them, blue, red, green, diamond white. He stared at them in fascination, listening to the easy sweep of waves on the stony beach below and Mulder breathing beside him. It calmed him so much that he heard himself asking,

"What's the next step?"

Again, that soothing workaday voice gave him the answer. "Well, if you were standing out here with a woman, watching the full moon rise, what would you do?"

Skinner shrugged. "Hold her hand, maybe."

"So try it."

Haltingly, Skinner reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hand Mulder had left on the railing. Mulder obligingly continued to look at the moon and didn't stir. After a while, during which Skinner had time to discover and explore the callous on the side of Mulder's index finger and the scar on the back of his hand, he realized that Mulder was shivering.

Without thinking about it, he gently pulled Mulder over to stand in front of him, then stepped in close and wrapped his arms around him. They both continued to stare at the moon and Mulder slowly relaxed against him, his shivers dying away into the warmth of Skinner's embrace. Mulder was as tall as he was, perhaps taller when not freighted with constant pain, so Skinner rested his chin lightly on Mulder's uninjured shoulder. Mulder's hair smelled faintly of soap and woodsmoke, a clean, comforting scent.

Skinner cautiously allowed himself to think about this. It was... good to hold Mulder like this. To feel like he was keeping him safe, if only for a moment, even if it were only a lie he told himself. The moon was now high enough in the sky that its light paved a golden path across the water. Mulder shivered again, then asked quietly, "How ya doin'?"

"So far, the experiment is a success. The patient hasn't died yet." Skinner tightened his grip slightly. /It's called a hug/, he reminded himself.

"Good," Mulder said ruefully, "because I think I need to get off this leg."

Skinner let go with some reluctance and followed Mulder back inside. The younger man eased himself into the chair by the fireplace as Skinner tossed another log on the dying fire.

"Thanks," Mulder said into the crackling silence.

"For what?" Skinner looked up from where he knelt on the hearth.

"For ...," Mulder shrugged, looking uncertain. For some reason, it reassured Skinner to know that he wasn't the only one who felt at a loss. He shrugged back, then got up and went to clean up the kitchen. It was calming, the washing and wiping of pans and dishes, counter tops and stove; it was imposing order on a small area of chaos, and he felt that he badly needed that now.

The other thing he badly needed, he realized as he wrung out the sponge and placed the last clean dish to drip dry, was sleep. Hours and hours of uninterrupted sleep. He looked at Mulder, sitting peacefully beside the fire and reading, then went into the bathroom and washed up. When he came out, he brought a handful of tablets; an antibiotic, a painkiller and one of Scully's enormous vitamins. He detoured through the kitchen for some bottled water, then brought it all to Mulder. Who grimaced in feeble protest, then swallowed it all, handing the emptied bottle back to Skinner with a look that suggested that he'd thought about sticking his tongue out.

Skinner said, "I'm going to bed. Will you be OK? Got everything you need?"

"I'll be fine...hey! What do I call you now? 'Sir' seems a bit formal and 'Skinner' is a bit cold."

"Walt. My friends call me 'Walt'." He couldn't quite look at Mulder. 

"Good night, Walt."

Haltingly, gratefully, Skinner put a hand onto Mulder's uninjured shoulder and squeezed.

Mulder smiled gently and said only, "Slow and easy."

//He was watching the moon rise again, low and large and deep red in the darkness. Its beams made a path across the water, flowing in a crimson line to his feet. The train station waiting room was filled with gory light and he stood, looking for something, becoming more desperate, more frightened when he could not find it. The light grew thicker and more viscous as he tried to move through it, soaking into his shoes and slacks and he still had not found what he needed. His foot struck something and he looked down to find a body lying in a pool of blood at his feet...//

Skinner awoke in the darkness with a groan. Not the nightmares again, he thought with a touch of desperation. Different this time, but no less horrible. He'd been having them again, off and on, for the past three weeks. It was no longer the old woman, nor his war memories, nor Sharon's death any more; it was Mulder. Damn.

He got up and padded into the kitchen area for a glass of water. The sweat on his body chilled him as he stood looking at the flat pewter of the lake in the moonlight. He had taken a basic psych class, he'd done enough private reading about sleep disorders and dream interpretation to know what he was trying to tell himself.

He swallowed the last of the water and turned away from the moonlight. He put the glass in the sink and went back to his own room. At the door, he stopped and considered the half-open door to Mulder's room. Oh no, he told himself. This is ridiculous, he grumbled silently as he went to stand in the door. Mulder looks..., his thoughts stuttered to a halt. Mulder looks... Skinner had realized that he had never really looked at Mulder before.

He leaned against the doorframe and, for the first time, simply looked at the man. Mulder was sleeping on his back, left arm and leg propped up with pillows. The moon had traveled across the sky and its pale light now filled the room, laying silver bands across the man in the bed. Mulder's face was nothing special, Skinner thought. Except. Yes, he had a prominent nose, but somehow his other features were well-formed and handsome, making him appear striking rather than homely. Awake, his eyes could command a room or tear a heart. Skinner remembered them sparkling with laughter, alight with fierce anger, shadowed with memories or flat with pain. 

Skinner snorted, half-laughing, half-appalled at himself. He was skulking in the doorway, mooning over Fox Mulder like a lovesick teenager. Hell, he remembered being a moody teen, staring at the most beautiful girl in school from around corners. If falling in love again was going to turn into a replay of his adolescence...

He blinked once, very carefully. Then he took a deep breath. Then he turned and went back to bed, moving slowly and with great care. He was mortally certain that if he so much as bumped something solid, he would shatter in the darkness. He sat in bed, the quilt pulled up around his shoulders and kept his mind very blank, until he fell asleep sometime after the edges of his window began to gray with the coming dawn.

"I'm telling you, Scully, the man is still asleep at 9:30 in the morning. I know, I checked. Yes, he's still breathing. You know, I see through your plot. I was going to accuse you of sending him up here to baby-sit me, but now I realize that you sent him up here for a rest cure." 

Mulder's voice was warm and playful and Skinner hadn't heard that ring to it in far too long. He lay in bed and only half-listened, preferring to let the rich tones of Mulder's laughter eddy around him.

"Actually, I am a little worried about him, Scully. He looks like shit. I was seriously considering sharing my vitamins with him. 

"Yes, I'm taking care of myself. Um... mostly peanut butter sandwiches until Walt got here." There was a silence and Skinner distinctly felt that it was an abashed silence. 

"Well, I'm eating now, OK? I just wasn't all that hungry before. Nope - he's been cooking. He's actually pretty good at it. Not as good as you, it's true. But you really didn't need your ex-partner hanging around your apartment for three solid weeks, watching the tube and being catty about your boyfriend. And trust me, I would have been." 

Another silence, then Mulder spoke again, voice lower and more gentle.

"I know. But it's for the best, really. It was time for me to leave - I just wish I could have gotten the news a couple of days sooner. I really do *not* enjoy being shot. Not even a little.

"Come on, Scully. Even you told me I should start thinking about what I wanted from my life. Besides, with Forensics plotting new ways to seduce you away from the X-Files every week, it'll probably work out well for everybody. Hell, Skinner's blood pressure will drop 40 points and his ulcer will heal in two weeks once I'm gone, I guarantee."

No, Skinner thought distantly, I think that's here to stay.

A chuckle, then he heard Mulder say, "All right, I'll let you get back to carving. Take care of yourself." Another chuckle. "Nah, I don't have to - Walt's doing that for me. He's a hell of a bully, you know. Not in your class, but close. Bye." 

There was the beep of a cell phone being hastily disconnected and the slow shuffling sounds of Mulder moving in the kitchen. Clinking, a liquid gurgling, then Mulder walking carefully into his room, pushing past the half-open door, a mug of coffee in one hand.

"Good morning. Do you feel like facing the day?"

Skinner sat up and rubbed his eyes, leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. "It depends. Is there any sugar in that coffee?"

"Not a grain."

"Give it here, then." He took it from Mulder, ignoring the singeing of his fingers as he turned the mug to get a grip on the handle. The first gulp burned all the way down and it was wonderful. Mulder eased himself down on the foot of the bed. The second swallow was halfway down when Skinner remembered his midnight discovery and he choked a little but managed not to spray any coffee around.

"You OK?" 

"Are you gonna keep asking me that every twenty minutes?" Skinner snapped.

"Only if you keep acting like a startled deer every time I move towards you," Mulder snapped back.

Skinner glared at him, then realized how it must have looked. "It's not you. I'm just not very good in the morning. Give me about half an hour and the rest of the pot of coffee, OK?"

Mulder's scowl lightened. "All right - general amnesty was already declared; I'm not all that hot when I first wake up, either. But I've been up for a couple of hours now, so I can pretend to be all offended by morning grouchiness. Breakfast in ten minutes, OK?"

Skinner nodded and sipped his coffee and watched as Mulder got up and limped out of the room. Then he got out of bed.

When Skinner wandered out into the dining area, he was freshly shaven and had his attack of nerves firmly under control. He was able to smile into Mulder's eyes and comment pleasantly on the sunlight streaming in the huge waterfront windows. The dining area was swimming in golden light and it touched Mulder kindly, lighting his eyes and warming his skin, as he laid out bowls and spoons. Cereal and milk already stood on the table, next to a fresh pot of coffee. 

They did not speak as they ate. Skinner sat facing the lake and tried to be interested in the sparkling water, cruising gulls and bobbing loons and Mergansers. But most of his attention was focused on the man who sat around the corner of the small table to his right. They were so close that their knees brushed against one another when they reached for the coffee pot or orange juice. 

Skinner found himself watching Mulder's hands this morning. They were large and square and surprisingly restful when Mulder wasn't speaking. There was a scar across the back of the left hand and Skinner's own fingers twitched when he remembered discovering it the previous evening. The nails were flat and well-kept, short and squared off. Strong hands, belonging to a capable man. Calluses were apparent on the first two fingers of the right hand, especially when Mulder was meditatively running his fingers along the grain of the wood as he watched the lakeshore. Skinner found himself wondering what they would feel like touching his skin. He jerked slightly in shock, then told himself to stop being a coward and think about it very carefully. So he ignored Mulder's startled glance and thought about it, staring intently at Mulder's now-still hands.

He thought about: the warmth of Mulder's hand in the small of his back as he had helped his boss to be seated the last time Skinner had been shot; Mulder's hand, gentle in his last night; Mulder's nails scratching lightly down his back, up his thighs; those square palms gliding slowly across his chest; strong fingers clamped around his wrists; knowing fingers grasping his cock... 

OK, he'd thought about it. He fumbled for his glass of orange juice and hoped to hell he wasn't as flushed as he felt. After a couple of gulps, he had gotten his breathing back to normal and looked up to meet Mulder's concerned gaze.

"I'm not asking if you're OK," Mulder said pointedly.

Skinner wiped his mouth and decide to risk part of the truth. "I was just easing myself into Step Three."

Mulder's eyebrow went up and he checked his watch. "And it's only 10:30 in the morning. Did I miss Step Two somewhere?"

"Yeah - you slept through it."

"I knew taking those painkillers was a bad idea," Mulder smiled and got up to put his bowl in the sink, "I miss all the fun."

Skinner could see how hard it was for Mulder to not ask, to give him his space. He got up and went over to Mulder, where he leaned on the sink. Carefully, even a little clumsily, he put his arms around the other man and hugged him gently. "No, you're not going to miss anything. I just need to take it..."

"...slow and easy," Mulder finished for him, voice a little muffled against Skinner's shoulder. "Got it. Take your time."

Skinner released him and stepped back slowly, inordinately pleased at the light in Mulder's eyes. He went to clear the table.

Mulder said, "There's a lighthouse up the coast from here, not too far. It's been standing over a hundred and fifty years. Want to go take a look?"

"Sure."

~ ~ ~ 

Split Rock Light had been built on the extreme edge of a cliff, seven stories above the lake. A popular tourist attraction, it was handicapped accessible, with wide paved paths. Skinner sighed in relief, not wanting to spend a sunny morning arguing with Mulder about overdoing it. They strolled the mostly empty paths, staring at the lake through the trees. The path led up to a wide green beside the lighthouse keeper's cottage. The lighthouse loomed above them, a yellow brick of exceptionally utilitarian ugliness. It was also up a steep stone staircase of at least 25 steps.

"Mulder..."

"I don't want to hear it, Walt. Go look at the view; I'll be along eventually."

Apparently the only area Mulder intended to be passive in was their personal relationship. Skinner wondered if he hadn't preferred yesterday's prickly but docile version of Mulder. But the steps were dry and even, the handrail secure. If Mulder wanted to exhaust himself, who was Skinner to stand in his way? At least, that's what he told himself, teeth gritted as he stomped his way to the top and strode to the safety fence at the edge of the parapet.

How the hell was he supposed to do this? He stared out at the deep blue of the lake, watching the sun dance on the water. Mulder was an FBI agent, (//had been// his conscience whispered). His entire life for the past ten years had been one long slalom through a minefield of the most unlikely dangers and he'd survived them all, with or without Skinner's help. 

There was a sharp wind blowing and he was glad of the cheap parka he'd bought, early May or not. He turned and sat on the edge of the concrete wall, crossing his arms and carefully not watching Mulder's jaw-clenching ascent by the simple expedient of closing his eyes. Far below him, he heard the hungry waters of the lake licking against the cliff side; songbirds chirped and sang in the trees next to the lighthouse keeper's cottage; the cool wind brought the sweet scent of poplars and fresh cut grass and the memory of yesterday's rain; there was a group of children jabbering cheerfully to their parents off to his right somewhere. A sense of warmth and energy settled in on his left.

Mulder said cockily, "Hi, sailor. Come here often?" The jaunty effect of his words was somewhat ruined by his gasping for breath and the sweat streaking his temples and flushed cheeks, but Skinner gave him full marks for the effort. He always had, he thought.

Fortunately, whatever he might have said in reply was cut off by the bone-numbing roar of the fog horn being sounded in the small outbuilding to their right. It was so loud, it was pointless to cover their ears, so they sat and listened to the mournful bellow warning all away from the danger of approaching too closely. 

Eventually, the sound died away, racing across the water toward that blue point where the water met the sky. Skinner looked at Mulder again, watched him looking out at the lake, watched how the sun picked out red and gold and silver strands in his hair, watched the strange lights and shadows in his eyes, saw the lines of pain, old and new, cut in beside his full mouth. He saw Mulder watching him, and finally, for the first time, could smile back rather than drop his eyes and look away.

"Step Four?"

"Nope, still part of Step Three, I think." Skinner smiled a little, feeling foolishly lighter at being able to talk about his own fear like this. "So, what monsters are living out in Lake Superior?"

"You know, there isn't a single legend out there that I could find? There aren't any myths or stories about anything living out here at all. Every other major body of water has something -- Okechobee, Loch Ness, even the St. Laurence - but not Superior. I wonder why?"

Skinner thought about it for a while as he watched gulls wheel and turn over the water far below them. "Maybe the lake itself is enough that we don't need to invent monsters to populate it." At Mulder's questioning look, he went on. "Look at how many people have been killed out on the lake. The storms you hear about, the 'Witch of November', with forty and fifty foot seas. Hell, the natural world is more than deadly enough here, who needs something with fins and teeth to worry about, too?"

"Unromantic, but you're probably right." 

They were silent for a while, Mulder leaning a little more on his cane than before. He appeared to be fascinated by a small clump of white flowers growing out of a cleft in the rock about six feet below them.

"I'm not romantic, Mulder."

"Is that a warning?"

Skinner nodded. "I'm not too good at the relationship thing."

"Like I've got some great track-record?"

"I've been divorced..."

"So have I."

They were silent for a while. Mulder began to walk slowly around the base of the lighthouse, Skinner strolling beside him. "So," Mulder said eventually. "You still want to risk it?"

"It scares the hell out of me." Skinner stopped and craned his head back to look at the lens of the lighthouse as it spun smoothly above them.

"Me, too." 

"But..." Skinner hesitated, unsure of what to say, only knowing that it would be hideously important either way. Mulder stopped and looked back at him. "I haven't had any better offers in a long time."

That slow, sweet smile again. "Sweep a boy of his feet, why don't you."

Skinner shook his head seriously, laughter blooming deep inside. "I can't yet. That's Step Five."

~ ~ ~ 

Not long after that, Mulder actually admitted to being tired and they walked slowly back to his rented Explorer. Skinner had the keys in his hand by the time they reached the parking lot but managed to repress the urge to suggest that Mulder wait and let him bring the car over. He kept his expression carefully neutral as he slid into the driver's seat nd tried not to notice how pale Mulder was. The other man was sitting with his head tipped back, eyes closed, breathing a little unevenly.

"I'm not asking," Skinner said pointedly.

"That's because you don't have to," Mulder smiled slightly, but gritted his teeth. 

Skinner sighed, fished on the seat behind him, then handed Mulder a bottle of spring water. After digging in his pocket, he produced a small unmarked bottle and shook out one of Mulder's lighter painkillers into his palm. Mulder meekly took the pill and swallowed it with a deep draught of water. 

"I'll make a deal with you, Walt. You don't say 'I told you so' and I won't make you carry me."

Skinner tried to scowl but only succeeded in a faint smirk as he put the car in gear. "Buckle your seat belt."

"This sounds familiar."

"Have you ever thought about just doing what you're told?"

"Yeah. But it's never worked out well for me. Someone's always wanting me to believe some lie or cover-up."

They had reached the front gate of the park and Skinner didn't reply, concentrating instead on the flow of weekend traffic and watching for an opening onto the highway.

Mulder's voice was very quiet when he said, "Shit, Walt. I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"I know."

"I..."

"Amnesty, remember? It's OK. How's your leg?"

"Actually, it's my back. All the muscles have locked up."

"I remember that. Sucks," Skinner said with conviction born of experience. 

They were passing through an unimpressive little town named Beaver Bay. He saw a small drug store and pulled in. He left Mulder in the car, biting his lip and slumped in his seat. He found what he needed and was back out and got them on the road in minutes.

Mulder didn't complain when Skinner helped him out of the Explorer. He even let Skinner keep an arm around his waist and maneuver him inside. When Mulder let him take his parka, Skinner's unease began to bloom into full worry. Then Mulder limped into the living room and carefully lowered himself into his chair with a grin.

"You know, I may have to rethink this whole independence thing. You make a hell of a Daddy."

"Fuck you," Skinner grinned in relief. "If you weren't half wasted, you'd hate it." He knelt to build a fire. Someone, Ed or Pauline, had already swept out the ashes.

"Actually, I hate it now. I'm just trying to approach it with dignity."

"If that's your idea of dignity, Mulder, I really don't want to be around when you decide to cut loose."

"Yes, you do," Mulder's voice was abruptly low and purring and it caught Skinner right between the shoulder-blades. Apparently, he'd reached Step Four without noticing. He shook his head, then got up and retrieved the bottle of oil he'd bought in Beaver Bay.

"C'mon, face down." He gestured toward the couch.

Mulder's eyes widened and his slightly doped gaze shifted jerkily between Skinner's face and the oil in his hand. "Are we at Step Five already?"

It took a moment. Then Skinner felt himself flushing and wondered whether being old and lonely would really be so bad; at least he'd have his composure in years to come. Then Mulder smiled and shrugged a little. "Sorry. I'm being an ass. Give me a hand up."

He accepted Skinner's sturdy forearm in a strong grip of his own and pulled himself upright, letting Skinner steady him over to the couch. The fire was drawing well now, filling the room with cheerful crackling. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, gilding the pine paneling and flooring until everything seemed soaked in honey.

This time, Skinner helped Mulder take off his shirt, blunt fingers brushing warm skin. Then he slid the other man's shoes off and stood back as Mulder slowly and painfully lowered himself down onto the couch. After some teeth-gritting and a couple of grunts, Mulder was lying flat, face turned toward the fireplace, injured arm and leg safely propped against the back of the couch.

Skinner dropped a cushion on the floor to kneel on, then poured some oil in his hands and rubbed it across his palms, warming it. He laid his hands on Mulder's back and just let them rest there for a moment. Pale, smooth skin over muscles so tense they were nearly vibrating beneath his fingertips. 

He began with long slow strokes up and down Mulder's back, enjoying the silky glide of the heels of his hands over oiled skin. He found a band of knotted muscles just below Mulder's shoulder blades and he concentrated most of his effort there for a while. Mulder's appreciative groans and gasps spurred him to dredge up every scrap he could remember from the Massage for Couples class he and Sharon had taken nearly a decade ago. He tried to vary his speed, the strength he used on a stroke, watched for ticklish points. Gentle persistence worked better than muscle, he remembered from his own recovery. Gradually, he could feel the muscles beneath his hands relaxing, so he switched to even slower, lighter strokes, covering every inch of Mulder's back with warm caresses.

The oil gleamed in the sunlight as Mulder purred and stretched under his hands. Skinner let his fingers walk up the back of Mulder's neck, teasing out the tension there. Mulder's purr became low and rumbling and was the kind of sound that Skinner associated with tornadoes and other acts of God. The sweet scent of the oil teased around him and Skinner suddenly remembered, joltingly, exactly what Mulder's mouth had tasted like.

He stopped dead for a moment. Then he began slowly sliding his hands over Mulder's back again, no real pattern or reason dictating his movements beyond the near-hypnotic pleasure of watching his own large hands skimming across Mulder's skin, the whisper of his skin touching Mulder's. Nearly half an hour had passed before he realized that Mulder was asleep beneath his hands.

He let his hands slide to a slow stop in the middle of Mulder's back. For a moment, he just reveled in the roll of Mulder's peaceful breathing in his grasp. He was still too thin, Skinner noted, tracing up the knobs of Mulder's spine with one fingertip. He spread his hands wide over both shoulder blades, feeling the iron muscles beneath the oiled silk of Mulder's skin, the heat of his palms meshing with Mulder's sleeping warmth.

Without thought, he leaned down and pressed his lips softly to Mulder's right shoulder. Very lightly, very slowly, he let himself unwind into the caress; it was alien as hell, it was what he had always wanted to do. Mulder slept on beneath his lips. Skinner let his fingers run lightly through Mulder's hair, his oiled fingers delighting in the thick smoothness of the strands that ran between them. Skinner thought about how different it was to touch a man like this, and yet, what was the true difference? He had touched his wife, his other lovers like this, as if they mattered to him.

He laid his cheek on the smooth curve of Mulder's ribs and calmly watched his own hand petting Mulder's chestnut and silver hair. Slowly, he thought about the picture they made and wondered how much a blackmailer might charge for such a compromising shot - an Assistant Director of the Bureau, snuggled around his sleeping subordinate. He thought he might like a copy and the upsurge of half-forgotten rebellion curved his lips. Screw the rules.

"What are you grinning about?" Mulder asked sleepily.

A little self-consciously, Skinner kept stroking Mulder's hair, his gaze locked on Mulder's closed eye. "I think you're my midlife crisis."

"Well, I'm cheaper than a Ferrari." Mulder opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Skinner, still pillowed on his back. "So, should I go back to sleep so you can molest me some more, or would you like some audience participation here?"

"Uh..." Skinner said intelligently.

Mulder began to move, causing Skinner to pull back a little. Slowly, carefully and with a couple of painful grunts, Mulder shifted himself, turning over onto his back. He lay, looking up at Skinner with a drowsy, complicated, happy look on his face. Very slowly, he reached out with his right hand and curled it around the nape of Skinner's neck. He tugged gently until Skinner's face was brought close to his. Then he waited, his breath warm against Skinner's lips, for Skinner to make the last inch of the journey by himself.

So one treacherously sunny afternoon on the north shore of Lake Superior, Walter Skinner found himself kissing his wounded younger male subordinate. The lake remained calm, the sunlight neither dimmed nor brightened and no one died from shock. It was a revelation, in its own way. And it was good.

So good, that when he pulled away from Mulder's generous mouth, he knew exactly where they were going next and welcomed it. Something in his eyes must have warned Mulder, who said regretfully, "It'll be a few more days before I'm back in action, Walt."

Skinner only smiled and said, "I can wait. Give me your cell phone."

~ ~ ~ 

Mulder let himself flop into the chair beside Skinner's and the motion was nearly graceful again. "The woman is a sadist. I'm never letting her touch me again."

Skinner, having heard this complaint every day for a week, merely raised an eyebrow and nodded to summon a waitress. "How's your range of motion?"

Unwillingly, Mulder admitted, "85% in the leg and 90% in the arm now. She thinks I'll get it all back, if I keep up the physical therapy when we get home."

"Which you will," Skinner said firmly, admiring the honey toned skin that showed through Mulder's open shirt front. 

"Bully," Mulder accused, as the smiling waitress deposited something frothy and fruit-filled in front of him. Since their first day here, she had spent her time concocting alcohol-free drinks to tempt Mulder, delivering them with a shy smile wherever he happened to be -- beside the pool, on the veranda, on the beach. Mulder's wounded good looks had excited much notice when they'd first arrived and Skinner had found himself glowering at the too-friendly overtures some of the other guests had made. But no one could maintain a bad mood for very long here -- the sun was too warm, the air too perfumed, the service too perfect. A stroll on the beach at sunset with Mulder beside him cured most of his sullen fit. The freedom to be able to simply turn and touch Mulder whenever he wanted did away with the rest.

So they had spent their days lounging in sun or shade, swimming when the mood took them, eating marvelous meals and reading or merely staring at the surf until their thoughts were filled with nothing more than shades of blue and green. They talked.

Last night, they had finally made love and Skinner was indeed a clumsy teen in love again. But he'd forgotten how wonderful that could feel, as they caressed and fumbled and laughed and made one another breathless, working carefully around Mulder's healing injuries.

"I'm your boss," Skinner retorted. "I'm supposed to be a bully." He took a sip of his own drink, then nearly spit it out when Mulder said, with that stubbornly focused look on his face, the one that Skinner hadn't seen in over a month,

"You never turned my resignation in, did you?"

Busted.

Skinner watched a gecko as it ran by his feet and felt the brief urge to warn it to get out of the blast radius. "Um," he said.

"Just turn it in when we get back, OK, Walt?"

Then Skinner turned to stare as Mulder sipped his drink. He was torn betwen wanting to lick the foam off Mulder's lip and wanting to shout at him. Mulder smiled cheerfully.

"You have no idea how adorable you look when you're flabbergasted."

Skinner shook his head slowly, disbelieving.

"Look, Walt. For the last time - I did not resign because you turned down a pass. It was time to go and it still is. Besides," he said, settling a little more comfortably into his chair, long tanned legs stretched out before him, "you're not allowed to fraternize with your agents. And trust me, we'll be fraternizing. A lot."

"Fox..."

"Walt..." There was not even a hint of softening in Mulder's position. "Trust me. It'll be better this way. It's gonna be hard enough to have a relationship without the whole work thing between us."

Mulder was right. The whole idea of Mulder being the voice of reason as a tropical breeze toyed with a lock of hair over his right eye suddenly struck Skinner as funny. Almost as funny as a middle-aged ex-Marine, ex-straight man falling in love with Fox Mulder. He ran one hand discreetly over Mulder's thigh, a small smile curving his mouth. But there was such a thing as being too reasonable. He asked, very carefully,

"Are you still going to squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube?"

And Mulder, knowing what Skinner was really asking, just nodded, eyes closing sleepily, a grin teasing its way onto his face. "For years, Walt. Just you wait."

Skinner, admitting that he had probably lost that battle years before he had ever met Mulder, said, "But we take one vacation a year someplace warm."

"Agreed," said Mulder from behind closed eyes. He reached out one hand blindly toward Skinner to seal the bargain. Skinner interlaced his fingers with Mulder's and rested their hands on the arm of his chair. Then he began wondering about the looks on the faces of his colleagues when he brought Mulder as his date to the Director's next Christmas Ball.

<Finis>


End file.
